A Lovely Cup Of Tea
Title: A Lovely Cup Of Tea
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
About: Based on a prompt at the inception_kink community: Eames takes Arthur home to meet his working class Cockney family. Hilarity ensues (being a working class Cockney myself, I couldn't resist)
Warnings: None
"So this is that lovely boy you've been telling us about! Come in, petal, let's have a look at you!"
Arthur smiled politely and extended a hand.
"Ooh, look at him, all airs and graces!"
Eames' mum clapped her podgy little hands together in delight. She was not quite what Arthur had expected. Indeed, this doughy little woman squeezed into an ill-fitting powder blue tracksuit, with her peroxide blonde curls cropped close to her head and a smear of too-bright pink lipstick, was about as far from what he had expected as humanly possible.
Mrs Eames put her hands on her hips and looked sternly at her son.
"Well don't just stand there Billy, aren't you going to bring him in?"
'Billy' Arthur mouthed, when Mrs Eames had gone back inside. Eames nudged him hard in the ribs with his elbow.
"Be nice," he said quietly. "They're a bit...unrefined. But they're good people."
The house itself was a 1960's prefab apartment, astonishingly ugly in its simplicity, and the Eames' eclectic taste in interior design did not help matters; their sofa, a blue paisley monstrosity, took up three quarters of the room. Bizarrely, fake flowers stood in odd locations, propped up in dusty vases.
"Sit down, dear," Mrs Eames cooed. "Your dad will be home any minute, Billy love. Won't you have some tea?"
"Yes please mum." Eames replied, and Arthur watched as his face lit up at the thought of tea. "And a bacon sandwich?"
"Cheeky git. Alright then. And you, young man?" She looked expectantly at Arthur. Eames had already taught him that in Cockney circles, refusing a cup of tea was tantamount to a punch in the face. So, despite the fact that he hated English tea with a passion, he nodded and smiled. "Yes please, Mrs Eames."
"Call me Sandra. And sit down, petal, you're making me nervous." Mrs Eames...Sandra...plodded off into the kitchen, where a clatter of crockery announced the 'making of the tea'.
Arthur sat rigidly on the awful blue sofa, feeling the springs cave in beneath his slight weight. The upholstery smelled strongly of nicotine and he fought against the urge to cough. Eames had already commandeered the remote control and was flicking through the channels on the television.
He came to rest, predictably, on a football game. And not the American kind, either. The English, passing-the-ball-back-and-forth, everyone-is-yelling kind. Eames threw the remote down onto the floor (the carpet, Arthur noticed, was peeling back in the corners and had probably not been vaccumed since Eames was a toddler)
Mrs Eames returned with a tea tray. Resting on it were two cups, wobbling around on mismatched saucers. They were chipped and the floral pattern had faded, but Arthur got the impression that they were Mrs Eames' very best china.
"I didn't know how many sugars you wanted, so I gave you four, same as Billy. Is that alright?"
Inside, Arthur felt his stomach shrivel into a tiny, raisin-sized knot. Once again, he affected that polite, strained smile. "Yes, Mrs Eames. Thank you."
"Such a polite boy. Not like Lord Muck over there." Mrs Eames inclined a thumb towards Eames, who had already put his feet up and was watching the game with an avidity previously reserved only for sex and work.
At that moment, the front door swung open. "Home, love!" came a voice. Arthur turned his head to see a tall man with a scruffy grey beard and a slight beer gut hanging his jacket up. He too was wearing a tracksuit. This time, it was a too-big grey polyster affair. The man paused occasionally to pull the trousers up past threadbare grey underpants.
"Alright, dad." Eames didn't even look up; he held the tea in one hand, keeping his eyes focused on the game.
"Alright boy." Mr Eames responded. Then he looked at Arthur. For a moment, he seemed very confused. "Who's this, then?"
"This is Arthur," Mrs Eames enthused. "You know, Billy's special friend. All the way from America too!"
"Oh." Mr Eames nodded. "Thank Christ for that, I thought you'd let a rozzer in. Alright lad?"
"Hello, Mr Eames."
"What's the score, boy?" Mr Eames asked, settling into the armchair opposite. The armchair was a sort of salmon pink velour and clashed horribly with the rest of the decor. He scratched absently at his armpit; Arthur barely suppressed a shudder.
"2-0 Millwall," Eames responded. From the kitchen, a smell of cooking meat wafted in; presumably, it was meant to be enticing because both Eames and his dad sniffed the air like hungry dogs.
"Make us a cuppa, won't you love?" Mr Eames yelled.
Arthur looked down at his own tea. It was a pale milky colour and looked desperately unappetising, but Mr Eames was watching him with sharp little eyes and he suddenly felt very exposed, here in this Bermondsey flat with these people he'd never met, and because he didn't know what else to do, he took a sip.
And it wasn't so bad. The sweetness masked the flavour, so it was really like drinking syrup. In any case, Arthur felt he could cope. As he sipped, Mr Eames nodded. "Drinks tea an' all," he said, mostly to himself, and his tone of voice suggested to Arthur that this was a Good Thing.
"That's a pricey-looking suit you've got on, lad." Mr Eames gestured to Arthur's neatly-pressed pinstripe three piece, which, on reflection, had probably been a bad idea - even Eames was wearing jeans and a t-shirt (not a tracksuit, though, blessedly) "Where'd you get clothes like that from?"
"Um. Armani, mostly." Mr Eames' eyes widened, as if Armani was a mere legend in these parts. "Sometimes Valentino."
"Must make a lot of money, doing what you do."
Arthur nodded; the intense stare Mr Eames was fixing him with made him nervous. "It pays okay, sir."
"Sir!" Mrs Eames exclaimed, bustling into the room with two plates, each containing a slab of bread as thick as a doorstop. Like a child, Eames leapt from his seat and snatched the plate from her.
"Cheers mum," he said.
"Bloody hell Bill, I don't think I mind you being a woofter if you're going to bring home ones like him," Mr Eames said.
"Dad, please." Eames spoke through a mouthful of half-chewed bread and bacon. Arthur felt himself cringe slightly; talking with his mouth full had always been one of the things Arthur hated about Eames.
"Are you sure you won't have a sandwich?" Mrs Eames asked, hovering above him, a vision in bobbled blue polyster. She eyed his cup of tea, and seemed pleased to notice that it was half drained.
"No thanks, Mrs Eames."
"Because I've got wafer thin ham," she continued, wandering back into the kitchen. "I'll make you a ham sandwich, dear, you could stand to put on a bit of weight. A strong breeze'd blow you away."
He looked at Eames, who seemed oblivious to what was happening around him; he had settled easily back into routine. Help he implored with his eyes. They're going to eat me alive.
Eames responded with a quizzical look, as if to say They like you. Roll with it.
From across the room, he heard Mr Eames belch loudly.
"Whoops!" he boomed, laughing uproariously. "Better out than in, ey?"
Arthur clasped his hands together on his lap and took a deep breath. It was going to be a long afternoon.
___
The ham sandwich arrived minutes later on a plain white saucer. Arthur accepted it with a smile of thanks. The ham was a peculiar limp pink colour and hung forlornly between the two chunks of bread.
"So, Arthur." Mrs Eames plopped down on the arm of Mr Eames' chair. "Where are you from?"
"I was born in Maryland," he said, draining the rest of his tea. There was a thick syrup of undissolved sugar at the bottom. "But I grew up in Los Angeles."
"Ooh. Is that near Disneyland, then?"
"Er..." Arthur faltered. Luckily, Mr Eames threw him a lifeline.
"How much did them shoes cost?" he asked, nodding at Arthur's immaculate black loafers.
"These? About $120, I think."
"Hundred and twenty quid!" Mrs Eames repeated slowly, as if incredibly impressed. She nudged Mr Eames with one pudgy elbow.
"Tell you what. I've got a mate down the market who'll get you a pair for twenty bob. Next time I see him..." Arthur could see, in the corner of his eye, Eames rolling his eyes at the thought of it.
"What do you do for a living, pet?" Mrs Eames interrupted. Mr Eames looked up at her, exasperated. She was smiling in earnest, and Arthur had to admit that she did look sort of cuddly.
"Mum, dad. Stop asking so many questions." Eames complained.
Mrs Eames frowned. "It's not illegal, is it Billy love?"
"Sort of. A little bit." Eames dismissed with a wave of his hand. His eyes never left the television. "But it's fine, mum. Arthur keeps me out of trouble."
"Oh, he's a good boy." Mrs Eames crossed over to the big blue sofa, pinching Arthur's cheek between her fingers as she went. It was sharp and painful and it took a mammoth effort not to yell out. "Now, I've done your washing. It's in a bag in the kitchen. Will you be wanting to take it with you?"
"Yes please."
"And what about you, Arthur? Do you need any washing done?"
"Don't be stupid, woman." Mr Eames was rolling tobacco in a little paper sheet. The smell was pungent and earthy. "Suit like that, you'd need to take it down the dry cleaners."
Mrs Eames shrugged. "If you say so, George."
____
Half an hour, and two more cups of tea later (Mrs Eames had taken Arthur's finishing of his tea to mean that he wanted more) Eames decided Arthur had had enough Bermondsey hospitality for one day. Mr Eames offered him a gruff handshake on the way out and told him he'd make good on his promise of cheap shoes. He also offered to take him to a Millwall game one day. "To get used to real sports. Not that poncy cheerleading rubbish you lot watch.". "But don't go dressed like that," he said, eyeing Arthur's three-piece critically. "They'll eat you alive."
Mrs Eames saw them to the door, clutching Eames' washing in a black bin bag. "Lovely to meet you, Arthur dear. Do come round again soon. I'll cook a roast."
"I don't think Arthur likes roast dinners very much."
"Everyone likes roasts, dear." Mrs Eames squeezed Arthur's arm and passed him the bin bag. Perplexed, he accepted it and politely kissed her cheek. "Nice to meet you, Mrs Eames. Bye."
As Arthur started up the car, Mrs Eames enveloped her much taller son in a big bear hug. "He's very nice, Billy. Handsome boy too. A little bit strange, but I suppose he is American."
"He just needs to get used to you." Eames kissed his mum on the cheek; the familiar smell of TCP and cigarettes was comforting. "Bye, mum."
"You will think about marrying this one, won't you?" She grasped both him arms gently, and the earnest look on her face was both endearing and a little sad. "He's such a nice boy, and I'd love you to settle down."
Eames smiled. "We'll see. Bye, mum."
"Bye, love."
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
About: Based on a prompt at the inception_kink community: Eames takes Arthur home to meet his working class Cockney family. Hilarity ensues (being a working class Cockney myself, I couldn't resist)
Warnings: None
"So this is that lovely boy you've been telling us about! Come in, petal, let's have a look at you!"
Arthur smiled politely and extended a hand.
"Ooh, look at him, all airs and graces!"
Eames' mum clapped her podgy little hands together in delight. She was not quite what Arthur had expected. Indeed, this doughy little woman squeezed into an ill-fitting powder blue tracksuit, with her peroxide blonde curls cropped close to her head and a smear of too-bright pink lipstick, was about as far from what he had expected as humanly possible.
Mrs Eames put her hands on her hips and looked sternly at her son.
"Well don't just stand there Billy, aren't you going to bring him in?"
'Billy' Arthur mouthed, when Mrs Eames had gone back inside. Eames nudged him hard in the ribs with his elbow.
"Be nice," he said quietly. "They're a bit...unrefined. But they're good people."
The house itself was a 1960's prefab apartment, astonishingly ugly in its simplicity, and the Eames' eclectic taste in interior design did not help matters; their sofa, a blue paisley monstrosity, took up three quarters of the room. Bizarrely, fake flowers stood in odd locations, propped up in dusty vases.
"Sit down, dear," Mrs Eames cooed. "Your dad will be home any minute, Billy love. Won't you have some tea?"
"Yes please mum." Eames replied, and Arthur watched as his face lit up at the thought of tea. "And a bacon sandwich?"
"Cheeky git. Alright then. And you, young man?" She looked expectantly at Arthur. Eames had already taught him that in Cockney circles, refusing a cup of tea was tantamount to a punch in the face. So, despite the fact that he hated English tea with a passion, he nodded and smiled. "Yes please, Mrs Eames."
"Call me Sandra. And sit down, petal, you're making me nervous." Mrs Eames...Sandra...plodded off into the kitchen, where a clatter of crockery announced the 'making of the tea'.
Arthur sat rigidly on the awful blue sofa, feeling the springs cave in beneath his slight weight. The upholstery smelled strongly of nicotine and he fought against the urge to cough. Eames had already commandeered the remote control and was flicking through the channels on the television.
He came to rest, predictably, on a football game. And not the American kind, either. The English, passing-the-ball-back-and-forth, everyone-is-yelling kind. Eames threw the remote down onto the floor (the carpet, Arthur noticed, was peeling back in the corners and had probably not been vaccumed since Eames was a toddler)
Mrs Eames returned with a tea tray. Resting on it were two cups, wobbling around on mismatched saucers. They were chipped and the floral pattern had faded, but Arthur got the impression that they were Mrs Eames' very best china.
"I didn't know how many sugars you wanted, so I gave you four, same as Billy. Is that alright?"
Inside, Arthur felt his stomach shrivel into a tiny, raisin-sized knot. Once again, he affected that polite, strained smile. "Yes, Mrs Eames. Thank you."
"Such a polite boy. Not like Lord Muck over there." Mrs Eames inclined a thumb towards Eames, who had already put his feet up and was watching the game with an avidity previously reserved only for sex and work.
At that moment, the front door swung open. "Home, love!" came a voice. Arthur turned his head to see a tall man with a scruffy grey beard and a slight beer gut hanging his jacket up. He too was wearing a tracksuit. This time, it was a too-big grey polyster affair. The man paused occasionally to pull the trousers up past threadbare grey underpants.
"Alright, dad." Eames didn't even look up; he held the tea in one hand, keeping his eyes focused on the game.
"Alright boy." Mr Eames responded. Then he looked at Arthur. For a moment, he seemed very confused. "Who's this, then?"
"This is Arthur," Mrs Eames enthused. "You know, Billy's special friend. All the way from America too!"
"Oh." Mr Eames nodded. "Thank Christ for that, I thought you'd let a rozzer in. Alright lad?"
"Hello, Mr Eames."
"What's the score, boy?" Mr Eames asked, settling into the armchair opposite. The armchair was a sort of salmon pink velour and clashed horribly with the rest of the decor. He scratched absently at his armpit; Arthur barely suppressed a shudder.
"2-0 Millwall," Eames responded. From the kitchen, a smell of cooking meat wafted in; presumably, it was meant to be enticing because both Eames and his dad sniffed the air like hungry dogs.
"Make us a cuppa, won't you love?" Mr Eames yelled.
Arthur looked down at his own tea. It was a pale milky colour and looked desperately unappetising, but Mr Eames was watching him with sharp little eyes and he suddenly felt very exposed, here in this Bermondsey flat with these people he'd never met, and because he didn't know what else to do, he took a sip.
And it wasn't so bad. The sweetness masked the flavour, so it was really like drinking syrup. In any case, Arthur felt he could cope. As he sipped, Mr Eames nodded. "Drinks tea an' all," he said, mostly to himself, and his tone of voice suggested to Arthur that this was a Good Thing.
"That's a pricey-looking suit you've got on, lad." Mr Eames gestured to Arthur's neatly-pressed pinstripe three piece, which, on reflection, had probably been a bad idea - even Eames was wearing jeans and a t-shirt (not a tracksuit, though, blessedly) "Where'd you get clothes like that from?"
"Um. Armani, mostly." Mr Eames' eyes widened, as if Armani was a mere legend in these parts. "Sometimes Valentino."
"Must make a lot of money, doing what you do."
Arthur nodded; the intense stare Mr Eames was fixing him with made him nervous. "It pays okay, sir."
"Sir!" Mrs Eames exclaimed, bustling into the room with two plates, each containing a slab of bread as thick as a doorstop. Like a child, Eames leapt from his seat and snatched the plate from her.
"Cheers mum," he said.
"Bloody hell Bill, I don't think I mind you being a woofter if you're going to bring home ones like him," Mr Eames said.
"Dad, please." Eames spoke through a mouthful of half-chewed bread and bacon. Arthur felt himself cringe slightly; talking with his mouth full had always been one of the things Arthur hated about Eames.
"Are you sure you won't have a sandwich?" Mrs Eames asked, hovering above him, a vision in bobbled blue polyster. She eyed his cup of tea, and seemed pleased to notice that it was half drained.
"No thanks, Mrs Eames."
"Because I've got wafer thin ham," she continued, wandering back into the kitchen. "I'll make you a ham sandwich, dear, you could stand to put on a bit of weight. A strong breeze'd blow you away."
He looked at Eames, who seemed oblivious to what was happening around him; he had settled easily back into routine. Help he implored with his eyes. They're going to eat me alive.
Eames responded with a quizzical look, as if to say They like you. Roll with it.
From across the room, he heard Mr Eames belch loudly.
"Whoops!" he boomed, laughing uproariously. "Better out than in, ey?"
Arthur clasped his hands together on his lap and took a deep breath. It was going to be a long afternoon.
___
The ham sandwich arrived minutes later on a plain white saucer. Arthur accepted it with a smile of thanks. The ham was a peculiar limp pink colour and hung forlornly between the two chunks of bread.
"So, Arthur." Mrs Eames plopped down on the arm of Mr Eames' chair. "Where are you from?"
"I was born in Maryland," he said, draining the rest of his tea. There was a thick syrup of undissolved sugar at the bottom. "But I grew up in Los Angeles."
"Ooh. Is that near Disneyland, then?"
"Er..." Arthur faltered. Luckily, Mr Eames threw him a lifeline.
"How much did them shoes cost?" he asked, nodding at Arthur's immaculate black loafers.
"These? About $120, I think."
"Hundred and twenty quid!" Mrs Eames repeated slowly, as if incredibly impressed. She nudged Mr Eames with one pudgy elbow.
"Tell you what. I've got a mate down the market who'll get you a pair for twenty bob. Next time I see him..." Arthur could see, in the corner of his eye, Eames rolling his eyes at the thought of it.
"What do you do for a living, pet?" Mrs Eames interrupted. Mr Eames looked up at her, exasperated. She was smiling in earnest, and Arthur had to admit that she did look sort of cuddly.
"Mum, dad. Stop asking so many questions." Eames complained.
Mrs Eames frowned. "It's not illegal, is it Billy love?"
"Sort of. A little bit." Eames dismissed with a wave of his hand. His eyes never left the television. "But it's fine, mum. Arthur keeps me out of trouble."
"Oh, he's a good boy." Mrs Eames crossed over to the big blue sofa, pinching Arthur's cheek between her fingers as she went. It was sharp and painful and it took a mammoth effort not to yell out. "Now, I've done your washing. It's in a bag in the kitchen. Will you be wanting to take it with you?"
"Yes please."
"And what about you, Arthur? Do you need any washing done?"
"Don't be stupid, woman." Mr Eames was rolling tobacco in a little paper sheet. The smell was pungent and earthy. "Suit like that, you'd need to take it down the dry cleaners."
Mrs Eames shrugged. "If you say so, George."
____
Half an hour, and two more cups of tea later (Mrs Eames had taken Arthur's finishing of his tea to mean that he wanted more) Eames decided Arthur had had enough Bermondsey hospitality for one day. Mr Eames offered him a gruff handshake on the way out and told him he'd make good on his promise of cheap shoes. He also offered to take him to a Millwall game one day. "To get used to real sports. Not that poncy cheerleading rubbish you lot watch.". "But don't go dressed like that," he said, eyeing Arthur's three-piece critically. "They'll eat you alive."
Mrs Eames saw them to the door, clutching Eames' washing in a black bin bag. "Lovely to meet you, Arthur dear. Do come round again soon. I'll cook a roast."
"I don't think Arthur likes roast dinners very much."
"Everyone likes roasts, dear." Mrs Eames squeezed Arthur's arm and passed him the bin bag. Perplexed, he accepted it and politely kissed her cheek. "Nice to meet you, Mrs Eames. Bye."
As Arthur started up the car, Mrs Eames enveloped her much taller son in a big bear hug. "He's very nice, Billy. Handsome boy too. A little bit strange, but I suppose he is American."
"He just needs to get used to you." Eames kissed his mum on the cheek; the familiar smell of TCP and cigarettes was comforting. "Bye, mum."
"You will think about marrying this one, won't you?" She grasped both him arms gently, and the earnest look on her face was both endearing and a little sad. "He's such a nice boy, and I'd love you to settle down."
Eames smiled. "We'll see. Bye, mum."
"Bye, love."